


The Lights of Thine Eyes, and the Light of Thy Sword

by Val Mora (valmora)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Futurefic, M/M, shocking the security goons, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:24:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which travel and international negotiations are conducted, and ambassadors are inconvenienced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lights of Thine Eyes, and the Light of Thy Sword

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted [here](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10456.html?thread=15613912#t15613912) for [this prompt](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=12459786#t12459786) and kindexed [here](http://community.livejournal.com/hetalia_kindex/1337324.html).

Athens isn’t on the way home from Strasbourg, but Turkey goes with Greece all the way there because the conversation is interesting. Because Greece is awake, and not angry, and Turkey remembered to take his allergy medication so being near Greece’s cats isn’t bothering him.

They have the train car all to themselves except for the usual security detail that they always get whenever traveling in their official capacities. It’s always a little distracting; at home he can go without and it always takes a few days to get used to having the guards back again. But it doesn’t impede the conversation much.

“The air is cleaner,” Greece says. “I’m glad it’s been working.” The cat in his lap butts its head up against his wrist.

“Yeah, you were right. It was a big expense up front, but it’s made its money back and more. And besides, when other people are footing the bill, it’s even better.”

Greece smiles. His eyes are half-closed, like maybe he wants to sleep. Turkey wouldn’t stop him. “We did. Pay for it. Just not all at once. Money paid before, to save up. And again after, to cover the debt.”

“I’m not hurting for cash,” Turkey says. “Enough oil money stuck to my pockets on its way to the Arabs that I could afford to support cleaner energy.”

Greece pats the cat. “Pipelines are valuable if you are a bridge.” Which is such a Greece thing to say, politics and metaphor and practicality, that it makes Turkey wish he could have Greece beside him all the time.

“Or have a strategic waterway,” Turkey adds.

Greece nods, leaning back, his hand stilling on the cat’s back. as he dozes off. The cat jumps off his lap and sidles its way over towards Turkey, who pats it on the head and then gets up to wash his hands before he inhales the cat dander or worse, gets it in his eyes. The cat doesn’t follow him.

When he gets back, the cat has curled up on top of the jacket next to Greece and also gone to sleep. Turkey sits down again in the seat across from them both, pulls his music player out from his bag and turns on some rap that Algeria sent him. He thinks about being unsubtle about watching Greece sleep, but that would ruin his badass image and frankly he doesn’t need the security goons to know what he wants out of a sex life.

Not that they _don’t_ know he’s slept with Greece. He’s pretty sure they figured it out after the conversation he had with Cyprus. They weren’t assigned to security detail for him because they were _dumb_.

He pulls out a book and starts reading, one eye on Greece and one eye on the text. It’s a trashy murder mystery. The fact that the heroine has had the batteries in her car sabotaged so they’ll explode fails to interest him. What is interesting is the hollow of Greece’s throat, where his pulse flickers steadily under his skin. The way his head has turned into the train’s headrest, drawing the tendons in his neck into sharp angles. Turkey wants to taste the salt of the skin there. He did it before, long centuries ago, when Greece was barely even a youth, when sex with him was a chore. It was nice to have the territory, but Greece himself was difficult, cold, with all his teenage wicked intellect bent against him. Turkey only physically fucked him twice – once to do it, and once more to prove to himself he could do it again – and then stopped because it just didn’t turn him on. Now, three centuries independent, Greece has worn his adulthood long enough to grow into it. No longer gangly and awkward, stretched thin and hungry, but filled-out, well-muscled and mature. Turkey wants this Greece, has wanted him for almost two centuries. He’s been working on their political relations, trying to ease the tension between him and – well, everyone else he borders, fuck, what he wouldn’t do for more Jews if God would get on his side – and it’s been working. Mostly. Certainly everything’s better in his corner of the world, with the twins having made up and unified in a politically equitable way, and Greece being friendly.

He’s not sure how far ‘friendly’ extends, but he knows what he wants, and he’s prepared to wait for it. It’ll make the getting that much sweeter, and it’ll already be sweet enough that if he ever gets it he’ll bleed to keep it.

 

 

 

Greece wakes when the train pulls into the station, flutters his eyes open and reaches for his jacket, spilling the cat onto the seat. It meows sadly and pads over to Turkey, who remembers belatedly that his meds have probably worn off. Well, nothing for it. He goes into his bag for another dose.

Greece watches him, then says, “When will you leave?”

Turkey shrugs. “Thought I’d see if you wanted to talk Mediterranean Bloc policy over dinner, then catch the next convenient flight out to Ankara.” He feels his security goons cringe. Buying flights on less than twenty-four hours’ notice is painful, even under the auspices of his diplomatic creds. Tough. If they can’t cope to changing political atmospheres they don’t need to be in his retinue.

Greece looks at the ceiling a moment. “I have some business in Thessaloniki. Not urgent, but it should be done. Your ambassador can buy train tickets.”

“For tomorrow?”

“The day after.”

His ambassador to Greece is not going to be happy to have her Nation knocking on the door with no warning, so he apologizes to Greece and gives her a call so at least she’ll have some warning.

“…My Nation, with greatest respect,” she says after he’s explained the situation, “I don’t like it when you drop by with no notice. It throws my security into panic. Please don’t come to the embassy before ten tonight.”

“Ece,” he lets her name roll around in his mouth, a caress, “Ece, dearest, I’m your friend. I wouldn’t give you less than four hours’ notice.”

“Bull,” she says flatly. “You just say that ‘cause it’s what your name means. You’re lucky I like you and that you provide my salary.”

“I’m lucky to have you working for me,” he says, and can imagine the look on her face, somewhere between charmed and constipated. Ece is his favorite of his ambassadors, and no wonder – he wouldn’t have sent her to Greece if she weren’t. You don’t show anything less than your best face to someone you want to sleep with.

He ends the call and walks back to where Greece is waiting.

“So long as I don’t set foot in my own country before ten, I’m clear,” he says.

Greece doesn’t look up from scratching at the top of the cat’s head. “You are welcome to dinner,” he says.

Turkey’s heart drops, stone-weight, into his belly. More than a hundred and fifty years since he’s shared a meal alone with Greece, and that was only after the earthquakes when they pretty much teamed up to rebuild and it was easier to eat together than to collapse trying to hold onto their grudges.

He’s been thinking about this so long he can hardly believe it’s happening. If he’s able to eat anything he’ll be surprised; he’s not even hungry, his appetite drained away. He has to grin, needs to throw himself off a cliff to counter it, drink poison. He buries his face in his hands and roars laughter, thinking, _Praise Allah to have opened his mind to kindness towards me._

“Thanks,” Turkey says finally, when his emotions have settled. “I’ll accept that.” He ignores the stares of his and Greece’s security details. If they all think he’s gone crazy then that’s their problem. Greece hasn’t even moved, legs crossed and cat still in his lap. He’s tough, and smart, and unshakable, and Turkey wants to lie skin-to-skin in bed beside him in peace and in pleasure.

Fuck. He has it so bad it’s embarrassing.

 

 

 

First thing Greece does once off the train is breeze by his office for the sole purpose of opening a few cans of cat food and leaving them out for the strays. Then they shed the security detail: all but one of Greece’s go back to report to their superiors, and Turkey sends his off to the embassy except for Davud and Nurhayat, since they speak passable Greek and can at least hold rudimentary conversation with their counterpart. Turkey thinks the guy’s name might be Stephanos.

Dinner is at a taverna a couple of blocks away from Greece’s office, and given the way the matronly woman sitting in the corner calls out, “Herakles! You’ve brought friends!” he comes there often.

Greece smiles at her, kisses her cheek. “Coworkers,” he corrects her. “After dinner, then maybe we will be friends.”

Turkey catches Nurhayat’s wince in his peripheral vision. It echoes how he feels. Stung, but with truth.

The meal is very good, fresh and hot, lamb and olives and spices thick and rich. He feels sated afterwards, ready to lie down and sleep.

He buys baklava for the guards, who are sitting two tables down, by way of thanks, since they are on duty and wouldn’t eat full meals. Nurhayat takes a piece from the plate without even blinking, and Davud passes the plate over to his Greek counterpart before taking some.

Greece eyes the plate the entire time, something softly tense in his shoulders; Turkey orders some for himself and, after eating a little, declares himself full and slides what remains over to Greece.

“Not right now,” Greece says, but he doesn’t push the plate aside.

“You mean you’re going to insult your friends by not eating their food?” Turkey asks. “That’s not real nice.”

“It’s not,” Greece allows, and his hand slides over to the plate. Quick, like he thinks Turkey isn’t watching, he eats a piece. The rest is gone in short order, and he drags his index finger through the honey left at the bottom of the plate. Takes his finger to his mouth and sucks the honey off.

Turkey freezes. Fuck. _Fuck_. He’s had this fantasy since before he joined the EU: Greece, and dessert from a shared meal, Turkey taking his hand and licking honey off his fingers. Kissing him enough to show the want and the hunger that Turkey carries like a favorite photo, not so much examined as felt blood-deep every time it whispers through his mind.

Greece swipes his finger through the honey on the plate again, but before he can raise it to his mouth Turkey catches his wrist, leans forward –

The pad of Greece’s finger is rough, callused against Turkey’s tongue. Sweet and sticky with honey. Turkey keeps his eyes lowered – had he never seen the strength in Greece’s wrists before? Had he never seen the blunt redness of his knuckles, scarred from fights and fishing-nets and rough soil?

Greece yanks his hand away. “The _hell_?”

Turkey can still taste his skin. He realizes, vaguely, that Stephanos has stood, and Davud and Nurhayat as well. That the owner has cowered down in her seat in the other corner of the room.

“Chill,” he says, waving it away. “Got carried away. Your wicked Sadiq.” He uses his human name because Greece has been coming to this restaurant incognito and he doesn’t want to blow Greece’s cover.

Greece’s hands clench on the table. “If this were a hundred years ago,” he says, “I would say ‘No friend of mine.’ But I can’t.”

Turkey grins, leans back in his chair. “I like ‘friends.’”

“You don’t,” Greece says. “You want to fuck me.”

“Well, yeah. You know how hot you are, right?”

“You’ve had this. You proved your dominance before, in blood and in bed. I’m free now. I don’t have to.”

“No, you don’t have to,” Turkey says. “You also haven’t got a fucking clue. I don’t want the kid whose lands I occupied three hundred years ago. I want the man standing across from me, who can’t dig subways because he doesn’t want to exhume his mother, who is the only sane and sensible one in EU meetings, who was a gangly rude thing that grew up beside me while I wasn’t watching into something raw and blooded and strong. Yeah, I want to fuck you. I also wouldn’t mind _getting_ fucked, if I thought you were interested.” He grins, the edges of his sunglasses pressure on his skin. “You get it now?” If Greece doesn’t get it Turkey’s going to start beating his own head against the table. That was disgustingly sappy. And embarrassing.

Davud keeps coughing. Well, good for him. Now that he knows his country’s gay for Greece he can get over it.

“I get it,” Greece says. He pulls out his wallet and drops enough money on the table to cover his meal; Turkey fumbles to do the same and has to run to follow him out of the restaurant.

“ _What_ do you get?” Turkey shouts after him, because Greece is ten paces ahead.

Greece halts. He’s breathing hard, mouth open, when Turkey catches up to him. “I get that you think you’re in love.”

Turkey blinks. Sighs. “That makes me sound like a pansy. Can’t you at least downgrade it to ‘crazed lust’?”

“Only you would think that was an improvement.” But Greece has at least cracked a smile.

“Well, I figure I can afford to be honest if I’m not going to –” Greece has grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him down until they are eye-to-eye.

“- get laid,” Turkey finishes, wincing preemptively for the punch, and Greece kisses him.

This is a good tactic, Turkey finally decides, once his brain has finally started back up again. It stops him talking, what with the slide of their tongues against each other, and distracts him from anything else that might be going on, between the pressing gentle wetness of Greece’s mouth and the feeling of his arms sliding around Turkey’s neck.

Eventually Turkey pulls away, swallows, licks his lips. Hears someone choking in the huddle of their security detail and ignores it. He finally manages, “What the hell?”

Greece wipes his mouth. “You didn’t force me,” he says, “so that means I must have wanted to do it.”

Wanted to kiss Turkey. Oh, _yeah_. Talk about good for the ego.

Turkey checks his watch. “You want to go visit Ece? I’m allowed back home again.” It lacks the panache of _Wanna go back to my place?_ but he can’t exactly invite himself over to Greece’s apartment so he’ll have to make do.

Greece smiles faintly. “No thanks,” he says. “You go home. I’ll be in my office tomorrow.” To talk policy, and maybe make their relations closer than they’ve been in centuries, and far more friendly than they’ve ever been. This is better than earthquake diplomacy. Way better.

 

 

 

Back at the embassy, Ece is waiting for the three of them. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s wearing grey dress pants and a diagonal-striped shirt: quite casual for her.

“I hear you passed your time with your Grecian counterpart,” she says, rising from the seat in the lobby where she was sitting.

“Over dinner,” he says. He figures she’ll debrief Nurhayat and Davud herself. “Great food, excellent company. I’ll probably be out at his office tomorrow talking policy.”

“Take Yakup and Gürdal with you.”

He waves a hand on his way to the stairwell. “Sure.”

“I don’t want to have to explain to the Prime Minister how I made it possible for my Nation to be mortally wounded.”

He grins, turning to face her. “I’m not gonna die,” he says, “unless Greece beats me to a pulp with that cross of his or I accidentally inhale a cat. I have a big mouth, but cats don’t fit, and as mad as Greece might get, he’s not going to kill me. Thanks, but don’t worry.”

She taps a foot. “You are a fool, my Nation,” she says. He tips an imaginary hat – he hasn’t worn a sarık since the eighteenth century, gave up the fez in 1925 during his modernization efforts, and personally discarded the fedora once Indiana Jones adopted it – and tramps up the stairs to the room where he’s staying.

 

 

 

While waiting for the water in the shower to warm up, he looks at himself in the mirror. Still fit, well-defined muscle. Broad shoulders, a lot of old scars from his warring days. Not all pretty ones, either. There’s an ugly raised one on the right side of his chest, puckered and pale. It fades about six centimeters short of his abs. He doesn’t have the same well-defined six-pack he did when he was younger, but he looks good there, and further down isn’t anything to be ashamed of, either. Nice size, nice look. Circumcised, of course.

He steps into the shower, starts to clean himself. He wonders if he’ll end up bending Greece over a desk, or spend some time on his knees on the floor, or any of the thousand other fantasies he’s had over the years.

He thinks about masturbating but doesn’t, mostly because he’s being a superstitious bastard. _Let Allah make it so that I may have sex with my friend – keeping in mind that that’s sodomy – if I refrain from self-pleasure._

It probably doesn’t work that way, but hey, no problem with trying.

 

 

 

Next morning he drops by Greece’s office just in time to drop greasy restaurant take-out lunch all over Greece’s desk, and by extension the paperwork Greece was reading.

“Guess you should take a break now and eat before it soaks in,” he suggests, shit-eating grin right in place.

Greece glares at him, stands up, and grabs Turkey by his belt buckle. Drags him forward into the desk. Unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his trousers, unzips the fly. Gets this close to dropping piping-hot slices of kebab _into Turkey’s pants_ before Turkey realizes what’s about to happen and takes two very fast steps back.

“You know that’ll make ‘em taste like cock, right?”

“You’ll like them better that way.” Greece gathers up the made-greasy paperwork and sets the still-clean pages aside.

“Not mine I wouldn’t. Want to try yours?”

“I’d rather eat lunch.”

Turkey jumps on that opening like it deserves. “I’ll have the Grecian special.” He sets his hands on Greece’s desk and leans forward. His still-unfastened trousers edge down his hips.

“Come isn’t halal.”

He can think of several things to say to that but lets all of them go, leans forward, kisses Greece. Who grabs Turkey’s shoulders and pretty much drags him across the desk to get closer. Turkey really has no objections, especially not as how he’s now standing with his ass to the desk and his crotch grinding into Greece’s hip, and yeah, that’s Greece’s dick saying hello. It’s a great day to be him.

 

 

 

Greece is surprisingly good at sucking cock. And by _surprisingly_ Turkey means _Fuck, fuck, yes, right there, like that,_ hands on the desk because if he puts them in Greece’s hair Greece’ll kill him.

As it is, he’s about ready to kill Greece when the blowjob stops. Until he realizes: that spark straight up his spine? Yeah, that’s Greece with two slicked-up fingers right inside him. And it’s fucking amazing.

It takes a little cooperation for Greece to hit his sweet spot. Most of it is Turkey managing to gasp out, “Not yet – no – no – **_Fuck yes there_**.”

Greece strokes Turkey’s perineum with his thumb, and Turkey’s muscles tighten involuntarily.

Greece looks up at him, asks, “Can I –”

“You hear me complaining? Maybe I need to: if you don’t fuck me I’m going to be real disappointed.”

He ends up on his back on the desk, Greece standing at the edge, the two of them rocking against each other and Turkey with his heels hooked over Greece’s shoulders and Greece’s hand around him.

He doesn’t mean to moan _Ελληνική Δημοκρατία_ right before he comes. He just does. It’s worth the embarrassment that hits him right after, though, to see the look on Greece’s face: shocked, and sex-flushed, and smiling.

Their eyes meet, and Turkey says it again, and that’s when Greece comes.


End file.
